Author: Ishaan Phukan

 

 

Gaping through the darkness,

Guided by the dim lit moonlight hue;

Enchained and isolated in solemn solidarity,

On the crossroads,

Of traditions, old and new.

 

I knew where to begin,

 But I know not,    

Where is the end!

But for the elder’s content;

To like the aims they chose,

I tried hard to pretend.

I worked hard,

Day and night;

Through the hours,

Past the overtime.

 

For every penny I earned,

With an ounce of happiness I paid;

So by the time I had success,

I rather lamented on following,

What the elders said.

 

 But now, it’s too late!

For the elders have gone,

And their words have faded;

Leaving me stuck with wads of notes,

Desperate,

For the happiness which I traded.

 

                                  –Ishaan Phukan

 

People around me,

At places high and low;

With whom to shake hand,

To whom shall I take a bow?

                                               

Plastic smiles,

Toned to perfection;

All emotions veiled,

Behind masks of austere discretion.

 

But now,

As I stare through the prism,

It all seems crystal clear;

As the synthetic thoughts settle down,

I see the hidden fear.

The once vibrant spirits,

Virile and vim;

In trail of wealth,

Turned vile men with faces grim.

 

Even at the sight of the best exquisites,

Behests are they dull and flag;

Cause ne’er do they seek the beauty,

But only the price tag.

 

Yet, staring through the prism,

As the glaring lights separates out;

I see a scared man hiding,

Behind the façade of flamboyant pride,

And ‘em frowns stout.

                                                         -Ishaan Phukan

The letters I sent,

Yet lie unanswered to;

Rottin’, outside your door,

Lay the flowers I sent you.

 

I thought of you as a friend,

And told you my secrets;

But you gossiped ‘em all about,

Leaving me scarred with regrets.

 

I remember when I first let you know,

The feelings of my heart;

You stood there with your friends, giggling,

As my confidence was ripped apart!

 

I, now realize,

That am in love with a stone;

And the horror of it,

Chills me to the bone.

 

But me,

Am a stubborn ass,

Ne’er will I lose my hopes,

To win my beautiful bride.

 

 

Cause, maybe,

Sometime, someday, someway;

The tides shall turn,

And my stone-hearted maiden will understand my love.

 

                                 -Ishaan Phukan

As the afternoon slipped in,

And it was time, to take a doze;

Into my grandmother’s bed,

Beside her, I crept close.

 

Tales laden with affection,

She narrated, as I drifted off to sleep;

Lores of concrete enmity and friendship,

And stories that made me weep.

 

Folklores dating centuries back,

Or of new era contemporaries may it be;

Through the day, storybooks she read,

To tell, yet another tale to me.

 

But with the tides of time,

Apart, our paths drifted;

The once strong relationship,

Into varied priorities it shifted.

 

Through the highs and lows of life,

I turned a vim spirited teen;

While she, with her profound serenity,

Stayed as she had been.

 

 

No longer, was I interested in her stories,

Rather to gossip with friends, I preferred;

And with the slippin’ hour,

To mere ‘hi’ and ‘hello’ was our conversation curbed.

 

‘I’ll talk to her tomorrow’, I promised every today,

But as hollow as the pipe did always the promise stay;

Until one fine day, it was too late,

As onto Mother Nature’s arms, her soul drifted away.

 

For the fault I made,

 I could blame god, destiny or just fate;

But my conscience shall for eternity regret,

Cause, it was just too late.

 

                                           –Ishaan Phukan

Infinite memories swirling around in my head,

They zoom by,

Showing little snatches,

Of times forgotten!

Golden sunlit rays of warmth,

And laughter,

Moonshine nights of tenderness,

And romance,

Black cloudy skies,

Of struggles and fear,

Lonely nights of heartbreaks,

And tears,

They’re all there,

In my mind,

Dancing their regal dances,

Smiling their poker smiles,

Holding grave secrets,

Deep inside.

Reminding me of my past,

Of some times significant,

Some which ought to be forgotten.

Of people with their colors,

And enigma,

Of the ones,

Who lived in the black and white shades,

Of the past,

Or the ones,

Who only hoped,

Of a better dawn tomorrow.

Stuck in my memory,

Like the stills of multicolored photographs,

Each color a link,

To another memory!

These times came,

And sped by,

Rejuvenated,

And returned,

To add another moment to my life.

 

Memories of my old friends,

Shall fade away,

To make a place for the new;

And someday,

Maybe one, two or five decades away,

When from being programmed work robots,

I turn to a crippled old being,

Ignored by the next generation,

Left to die inside the four walls,

Of an old age home,

Lying alone,

In a skeleton of a bed,

Powerless to move,

As I let my imagination,

Prowl though my memories;

Only then shall I remember these times,

The times that died off with my childhood!

Hangouts with friends,

And late night spoofs,

Kisses of girlfriends,

And the stolen evening booze,

Flirts and friendships,

Short lil’ road trips,

The joys of the things I did,

And the regrets of the ones I didn’t do,

Shall all be a mess,

In my head!

My properties and wealth,

All stolen by my children,

All my hard work lost!

These bags of medicine,

Rags of clothing,

Is all I got!

Then,

These times are the things, my friend,

On which shall I refurbish,

My smile,

That I lost!

 

        -Ishaan Phukan